


Senza Tema D'infamia ti Rispondo

by classynightmarestag



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, But if you are looking for pure sweet fluffy Hannigram, But just to be safe please take the warning seriously, Cannibalism, Case Fic, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal is Hannibal, Happy Reading, I'm getting off here now, I'm pretty sure this is also not stricly angst, It’s a seriously fucked up case, Kinda, M/M, Not to say there won't be some aww so cute moments, So far it's only been mentioned, So... idk, This story is not that, What Is Wrong With ME, these tags are a mess, this is not fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-10-21 04:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10677345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classynightmarestag/pseuds/classynightmarestag
Summary: Will Graham is ridding the world of serial killers one at a time. Then he meets Hannibal Lecter.





	1. Prelude

Nighttime. The moonlight calls to me like a siren song. Enchanting and intoxicating. Purifying and absolving. No one to see my sins but the lunar goddess, shining her light down upon me like a benediction. At times such as these the world and all of it's billions of inhabitants fall away. They are as fleeting and insignificant as particles of dust floating on a ray of sun. It's cleansing to be alone with the moon. I find that I never know myself, never am as in tune with myself, as I am in these moments. A cold breeze caresses my skin and makes the few leaves still clinging to the trees shiver. I shiver alongside them in anticipation.

 _Soon_ , I think with mounting excitement. He'll stumble, unsuspecting, into my web. I'll lose my solitude with the moonlight, but I'll gain a dance partner. Our minds will twist and twirl until his blood is a halo around us on the ground. Arterial spray like abstract art. The goddess will turn the garnet blood black and look upon my offering with favor. There will be one less demon in the world.

I found him weeks ago. Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He'd just taken his third victim. He was the one. No one had put together the pattern; no one even knew to look for a pattern. No one was looking for him because they didn't know there was anyone to look for. I had seen, though. The missing girls. All of them were the same. There's a design, a method to his madness. Once I found him, I followed him. I came to know Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He wouldn't call what he does murder, just as a hunter wouldn't apply the word to what he's done to the deer. It makes him dangerous. Now is the time to end his reign before it can begin. No more missing girls. 

I glance quickly around my secluded clearing. Any minute now. I called Hobbs yesterday and told him that I know. Me and no one else. I advised him not to do anything rash and to instead please meet me at this time and at these coordinates. The time being now and the coordinates being here. He'll come. I'm sure of it. He's too curious and he's too scared and he's too confident in his ability to hunt. He will have scoped out the location. I made sure and gave him the time to. He'll have seen that it's out of the way. He'll be planning to kill me. I want him to think he's been unwittingly given the opportunity to remove the only person who knows his secret from the picture. Safe again. Garrett Jacob Hobbs will be planning to honor me, otherwise it's just murder. Oh, but I'll honor him. Every part of him, just like he did to the girls. I've never tasted human meat before, but it can't be too disagreeable. I imagine cannibals wouldn't be so keen on it if it weren't any good.

I hear a soft rustle across from me, on the opposite side of the clearing. Branches snapping underfoot. From the treeline emerges Garrett Jacob Hobbs. 


	2. Cavatina

A hush falls over us. I look into Hobbs's eyes and he looks into mine. The moon shines down on us both, creating deep shadows and pale highlights. Neither of us speaks. My heart beats steadily, but I can feel the titillating suspense in the marrow of my bones. Hobbs takes a slow and calculated step forward. I mirror him. A smile that doesn't reach his eyes slides onto his face, thrown into sharp relief by the ghostly light of the moon. For seconds, or minutes, or hours we watch each other. Somewhere in the distance an owl cries out. Hobbs takes another step toward me. I take another step toward Hobbs. He begins to reach into his coat, but I'm so much faster. I pull out my hidden revolver and fire once with deadly accuracy. The bullet slices neatly through the carotid artery and blood springs forth like it's been meaning to escape this entire time. Inertia forces him backwards. He stumbles and he falls to the ground with a dull thud. For several minutes the only sounds are my own even breaths and the wet, gurgling sounds of Hobbs dying. I watch him with detached curiosity as he struggles in vain to live. Eventually, with a final shudder, Garrett Jacob Hobbs is dead. The moon seems to shine a little brighter, pleased.

I sink to my knees and turn my face to the skies above me, bathing in the moonlight. Exalting in it. Basking in celestial commendation. Everything is as I planned. I look at the body in front of me, sprawled on the ground, dark blood seeping out of the wound in its neck. On the grass around it are high arching spatters of black. Beautiful. It's like a morbid, real-life interpretation of a Jackson Pollock painting and all of it is cast in a silvery, ethereal glow that acts as a spotlight. I feel a strong desire to take a photograph; to put this in a scrapbook. I don't though. That would be enormously reckless and painfully cliche. _Maybe I could even throw in some newspaper clippings_ , I muse sarcastically.

Hobbs can't hurt anyone ever again. I've made sure of that. There is no sense in risking exposure on nothing more than a whim. Hobbs will get his just desserts when I honor him and in a couple of weeks there will be nothing left of him to find. _Karma’s a real bitch, isn’t it?_ I think vindictively. For now, my job is complete and it's time to pack up. After all, I have an eight am lecture to give tomorrow.

I look myself over and find that a few drops of blood found their way to the tips of my shoes. I'll clean them and no one will know. As for the masterpiece in front of me... I triple checked the forecast before scheduling the execution and, if it holds, there will be a heavy rainstorm around midday tomorrow. Most, if not all, forensic evidence will be washed away. The body will come with me. If anyone stumbles across this clearing, any blood still on the ground will be chalked up to nothing more sinister than animal blood. These woods are fairly popular with hunters. One of the many reasons I chose it. No one will question a gunshot, a spent shell casing, or a little blood.

I rise from my position on the ground and gaze appreciatively, once more, at the scene in front of me. With a sigh I step forward and lift Hobbs’s body from its place amidst the blood, destroying the art. As I carry his body to my well hidden truck I think almost wistfully about the Chesapeake Ripper.

Make no mistake, he’s number one on my ‘If I Could Get Away with It’ hit list. Unfortunately, he’s much, much too high-profile. It’s a shame really. He tortures his victims. He’s a sadist and a serial killer with a notable body count. He needs to be removed. I need to remove him. That doesn’t keep me from admiring him. The brazen you-can’t-catch-me nature of his tableaux and the panache with which he creates them is extraordinary. He is meticulous and philosophical. His work is evocative and innovative. A large part of me wants to learn from him. To be his acolyte. To become an artist like him, employing death and decay as my main tools. My victims wouldn’t be innocent. My victims would get what was coming to them. It’s a tantalizing notion, but in reality I much prefer anonymity. I don’t welcome the scrutiny of the law in the same way the Chesapeake Ripper does. I don’t do what I do to taunt. My main objective isn’t punishment. Retribution is just a delightful bonus that I’ve allowed myself to dole out. No, my real goal is to rid the world of the kind of filth that preys on the innocent. Hence, my intense desire to kill the Chesapeake Ripper. Still, I can’t help but feel a sick fascination with his work.

I shake my head to clear it. I’ve reached my rusty red truck reserved solely for my less savory activities and so I toss Hobbs unceremoniously into the bed, secure his body so it doesn’t roll around, and then throw a tarp over it and secure that, too. When I get home, he’ll go in the freezer in my barn. It’ll take me a few hours to, ah, make him fit. Once I get home from work tomorrow I’ll prepare dinner. I’ll feed my dogs. I’ll tie some lures. It’s how Hobbs treated the girls and now it’s how I’m treating Hobbs. _Karma is a real bitch,_ I think at Hobbs again, with a derisive chuckle. There is no satisfaction greater than knowing justice has been served. I feel whole; righteous; powerful; _good_. By ending one life, who knows how many I have saved. Euphoria is creeping in on me. I climb into the driver’s seat of my truck and start the engine. I’ve been driving for fifteen minutes before I realize that I’m grinning like the Cheshire Cat.


	3. Verismo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to quickly thank everyone who has left kudos and comments, and subscribed to this fic or bookmarked it. You give me life. Thanks for reading :)

Five days have passed since I killed Hobbs.  The first night I took a bite of him it was intense. As I cooked, I was filled with apprehension. An apprehension not dissimilar to that of a child who is about to go over the hill of their first roller coaster. I was crossing a line that I had never crossed before. Hobbs was going to get what was coming to him. I had to do it for them. For his victims and the girls who would have become his victims had I not stepped in. I didn’t do anything fancy with the meat. I’m not really much of a cook. Not wanting to accidentally waste the meat, I made the equivalent of honey baked chicken. I took my plate and sat down to eat. I raised the fork slowly to my mouth and carefully set the meat on my tongue as a shiver raced down my spine. While I chewed, I decided there was a very specific, yet subtle, flavor to the meat. It was the only thing that made it distinguishable from pork. If I hadn’t been paying such close attention to the taste, I highly doubt I would have noticed. The more I ate, the less I worried about the line I was crossing, until eventually it was completely inconsequential.

Tying my lures had been interesting. I had the opportunity to be creative. I deliberated for a while on what parts of Hobbs would work best and which I wanted to use first. I ended up taking his left lateral incisor and sanding it down until it was approximately the shape and size I needed. My dogs ate while I worked. They didn’t seem to notice anything different about their food.

The following nights were similar to the first, only lacking the nerves. Everything feels right. Like the universe is in balance. Somehow though, I still feel hungry for something more, if you’ll pardon the pun. What, I don’t know.

As I’m driving to work, the devil on my shoulder begins hissing in my ear. _I know,_ he taunts. Thoughts come to me unbidden. How much more satisfying would it be if I could make a public spectacle out of Hobbs? How would it feel to send a message to all the other Garrett Jacob Hobbs-es out there? _I’m here and I’m watching. I understand you and you disgust me. I won’t sit back passively, wallowing in angst. I’ll take action. I will be your end._ Reason coos to me that I can’t. I wouldn’t just be sending a message to the killers, I’d be sending a message to the FBI. There’s a solid 95% chance that I would be asked to profile myself. That’s not something that has ever held any appeal for me.

I make a quick stop at coffee shop about five minutes from the FBI Academy. It’s small, locally owned, and inexpensive. In the window there is a chalkboard sign listing today’s specials in careful, swooping cursive. I push open the glass door and a small brass bell rings as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee washes over me. The lighting is low and warm. The counter is to the left, and to the right is a smattering of worn wooden tables and chairs. Soft music plays dimly in the background. The only people inside are a couple of girls huddled together at a table staring at a textbook with matching looks of resigned despair and the barista. This is why I come here. No, not for the despairing college girls. It’s rarely crowded, always quiet, and truly the coffee is sublime. Sometimes I seriously wonder how this place exists.

I approach the counter and a girl I’ve never seen here before appraises me with boredom. She has shoulder-length blonde hair with the ends dyed a light brown. Her eyes are green and framed with long eyelashes made dark by mascara that has clearly been over applied.

“Can I help you?” she intones, face impassive.

“Black coffee to go,” I reply, handing her two dollars and seventy five cents.

“Sure.” She sighs, completes the transaction, and all but drags her feet over to make my order. It’s rather unusual for this establishment. Typically the staff here is almost overly friendly. I’d be irritated at her behavior, but it isn’t worth it. Besides, it’s not like I can’t personally relate to being antisocial.

Once she’s finished making my coffee, she shuffles over to me, slaps the cup down on the counter and walks away. At that I raise an eyebrow, but say nothing. I really hope she doesn’t treat all the customers like this. The owners don’t deserve to lose business because this girl can’t be civil. Maybe I am a little irritated at her behavior after all.

I turn to leave as I adjust the lid which was not really in place, vaguely register the sound of the bell jingling, and take approximately two steps toward the door before I walk right into somebody. I very narrowly avoid spilling coffee all over his… impeccable plaid three piece suit? Okay then.

“Sorry. Wasn’t looking where I was going,” I mutter, feeling the first twinges of embarrassment creep in. I glance up and feel my brain stutter for a second. This man is gorgeous. High cheekbones, upturned lips, fine nose. He carries himself like royalty. Not necessarily in a way that condescends to others, however. He simply exudes confidence and poise.

“It’s quite alright. There was no harm done,” he says smoothly, with a charismatic quirk of his mouth. There’s a glint of humor in his deep brown eyes. I can’t quite pinpoint his accent but it sounds eastern European.

“It’s... uh, right. Good,” I mumble with the utmost eloquence. _Get it together, Graham,_ I scold myself. The girl behind the counter snorts a little. The man I ran into considers the girl at the counter, tilts his head slightly, and blinks once before looking back at me. Mentally, I slap myself. Vigilantism I can do. Socializing? Forget it. “I’m glad,” I try again with a tentative smile. I skirt around him and head for the door, successfully this time. He turns back to me and inclines his head. I do the same and then step outside.

I take a deep breath and sigh at myself. When did I revert to my teenage years? I'm not looking for a relationship, casual or otherwise, and for a very good reason. Exasperated with myself, I get in my sedan and head to my first lecture of the day. I think about ways I’ll be able to use Hobbs up before he spoils.

***

As I’m finishing up my last lecture before lunch, I see Alana Bloom slip into my classroom with someone else who I catch out of the corner of my eye. There was a long span of time when Alana would avoid being alone in a room with me. She was smooth about it, naturally, but I noticed. It took some time and an exhausting amount of casual conversation, but I gained her trust and eventually her friendship. There’s no reason to have an FBI employed psychiatrist suspicious of me. I much prefer having her in my corner. There may come a day when that comes in handy. Of course, beyond all of that I genuinely like Alana. I used to think about kissing her actually. I crushed the urge when I picked up putting people down. Alana is smart. If we were involved she would have known something was up and she wouldn’t have been happy. As it is now, we sometimes take our lunch together. Occasionally, she attempts to set me up on dates. It seems to reassure her if I go. Alana doesn’t have to know that I have no intention of trying for a relationship. She especially doesn’t have to know that I deliberately sabotage the dates. I assume, given a person came in with her, a combination of lunch and dating is what she has on the agenda for today.

Once all my students are filing out, Alana begins making her way to my desk. I keep my head down, straightening out my paperwork. I can hear the clicks of her heels grow louder as she comes closer, followed by heavier footsteps.

“Hi,” she says brightly and I look up. To my surprise, the man I didn’t spill coffee on this morning is with her. “Will, this is Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal, this is Will Graham.”

“We’ve met,” I say as we shake hands.

At Alana’s inquisitive look, Doctor Lecter says “When I was picking up our coffee this morning, Mr. Graham and I ran into each other.” There’s a mirth in his eyes and a curve to his lip that leads me to believe he’s very amused by his own joke. He appears rather self-satisfied.

“I think it’s more accurate to say that I ran into you,” I reply wittily. Hopefully I can make up for my brain temporarily abandoning me earlier. Not that I care what he thinks. Alana is glancing back and forth between us with a million questions etched on her face. “What can I do for you, Alana?”

With pursed lips she states sourly, “Jack Crawford is going to ask you to consult on a case.” Apparently I was very wrong about her agenda.

“And you’re worried he’ll break me?” I ask sarcastically. When she doesn’t reply, I ease up. “Alana, it isn’t going to be my first crime scene and it certainly won’t be my last.”

“Will, these things, they eat at people. People who experience much lower levels of empathy than you do. I want to make sure you’re safe. I’ve advised Jack not to put you out there. He isn’t going to listen to me, so I’m going to do the next best thing I can.”

“Which is?” I glance at Doctor Lecter. I think I know where this is going.

“Psych evals are mandatory. You’ll have to have one, but I guarantee Jack will make sure you're rubber stamped.” Alana pauses for a beat and then continues. “I want you to see Doctor Lecter. If not because you think you need to, then because it will help me sleep at night.”

“I don’t do therapy,” I say with agitation. Of all people, I definitely do not need nor want someone poking around my brain, learning my secrets, working out how I tick. God knows that’s the very _last_ thing I need.

“If the idea of therapy makes you uncomfortable, we could simply have conversations,” offers Doctor Lecter.

“Conversations,” I repeat skeptically. I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. I adjust my glasses. Before I know it, bits and pieces of a plan are revealing themselves to me. In a second they fall together and I know what I’m going to do. “I’ll think about it,” I say haltingly, expertly feigning indecision. I’m silent for a few seconds, giving the appearance of weighing my next words carefully. “How about tonight the two of you come over for dinner and we can discuss this properly?” Internally I’m dancing. Hobbs fed the girls to his family and friends, so why should my dogs and I keep Hobbs to ourselves?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? Predictions, opinions, questions, concerns? I thrive on feedback, so if you lovely jelly beans would like to tell me what you've got kicking around in your heads, you'll make my day! Until next time :)


	4. Pas de Deux

After work, I stop at a gourmet grocery store _(The Fresh Market)_ I’ve never been to before that sells high-end produce and pick up a few items my kitchen is currently lacking. It’s expensive and I'll never shop there again, but why not go all out, right? The ingredients I usually buy are only barely passable to even me. I highly doubt they’d be in the same realm as edible to Doctor Lecter. He’s probably used to quality in all aspects of his life. If I’m being perfectly honest, my pantry is a nightmare. The only thing I usually make is fish and dog food, everything else is microwavable or takeout. I’ve been cooking more recently of course, but I’ve kept it fairly bland and basic. At first I was worried I would waste the meat if I tried something too fancy and messed it up. Then I found with a few days of practice, I knew what I was doing. I’m a fast learner. After that, it just felt wrong to me, worse somehow, to turn Hobbs into something too enjoyable. Serving guests is different than serving myself, however. I want them to enjoy. For tonight’s dinner I decided to make ‘pork’ loin with a cranberry vinaigrette laid out on a bed of spinach. It seemed easy enough, but still delicious. I picked it for the visual, as well. The red of the vinaigrette against the light color of the pork is striking. An image of scarlet blood staining untouched snow flashes before my eyes. I feel quite certain that Doctor Lecter is a man for whom aesthetics are a priority. I need this evening to go well. I plan to build trust and friendship in Doctor Lecter in much the same way I did Alana. Yet another respected psychiatrist who can serve as a character witness if anyone ever begins to suspect. _Will Graham? But he’s such a nice guy. We had the most wonderful dinner. He couldn’t be the man you’re looking for._

At home, I feed the dogs and set to work cleaning the house. It needs it much more desperately than I realized. There is a thin layer of dog hair coating nearly every surface. I straighten up my fly fishing paraphernalia. I dust off my old piano and attempt to polish up the wood. I take the boat engine I’ve been repairing outside to the the barn. I move the dog beds upstairs. The dogs can stay there until dinner is finished. I feel bad about it, but they’ll be fine. I dig around in my cabinets until I find my nice china plates, silverware, and wine glasses (of which I have exactly three, by some miracle). I set the table and get started cooking.

Alana texted me earlier to let me know that she and Doctor Lecter could be at my house around 7:30, if that was alright. I said it was and she asked if she could bring anything. I told her not to worry about it. If I know Alana, and I do, she’ll bring something anyway. If I’ve understood Doctor Lecter, I believe he’ll bring a bottle of wine. Something expensive, but one of the less expensive bottles he owns so as not to flaunt his wealth. The uppercrust are incredibly easy to predict, always following every rule of etiquette to the letter lest they appear, God forbid,  _ rude. _ As if  _ rude _ is, or should be, punishable by death. I don’t find these people interesting by any stretch of the imagination. 

Around 7:20 I’m arranging the dishes. I can’t help but marvel at what Garrett Jacobs Hobbs has become. An emotion I barely recognize forces its way to the surface. I can feel it in my veins, in my heart, in my blood and in my bones. It’s primal and it’s aggressive. It’s victory. I have conquered him. In his death, I continue to conquer him. With every mouthful, I own him. With every bite my guests and I take, we will dismantle him and rise above him.  _ Look at you now,  _ I think. Through the heady rush of absolute dominance, my conscience begins to trickle in.  _ This isn’t why you do this, _ it reprimands.  _ You are not like him. You are not like any of them. This is not you, Will Graham.  _ Every nerve in my body is singing a song to the contrary.  _ This is who you are. It feels so good doesn’t it? Don’t you want to do it again? And then again and again? Hobbs had it right. Eating them. Feeding them to others. This is the satisfaction you have been looking for. You can’t throw it away.  _ The power I feel is transcendent, the guilt all-consuming. Just as I feel as if I’m going to tear in two, become both Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, there is a knock at my door. I take a deep, cleansing breath and glance at the clock on my stove. It is exactly 7:30. I shake my head a little, amused by the perfect punctuality. 

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and then go and open the door. On my porch is Doctor Lecter, somehow looking even more polished than he did earlier, and Alana, with her hair now half-up. In her hands is a box. The shape suggests that it contains chocolate or some other kind of candy. In Doctor Lecter’s hands is a bottle of red wine. The corners of my mouth twitch up involuntarily and I quickly turn it into a smile of greeting. 

“Hello,” I say affably. “Please, come in.” I stand off to the side and with a wave of my hand, gesture for them to enter my home, which is now significantly cleaner than it was this morning. The dogs are all upstairs and I feel very proud of them. Not one of them has barked.

As they step inside, I notice that they drove separately. I’m mildly surprised. I half expected them to drive together. I close the door and turn around. 

“Thank you for having us, Will,” says Alana.

“Yes, thank you,” adds Doctor Lecter.

“It’s no problem. You can take a seat at the table and I’ll be right back with the food,” I say.

“Where do you want these?” asks Alana in reference to the box and the wine.

“I’ll take that. Thank you,” I say reaching for the box. As suspected, it’s chocolate. Assorted Lindt Lindor chocolate truffles. “We could drink the wine with dinner. I’m sure it’s much better than what I have.” I look askance at Doctor Lecter.

“That was my intention.” He doesn’t quite smile, but his features are amiably soft.  _ Damn, I need to figure out how to do that,  _ I think.

“Well, I’ll be right back with dinner, then,” I say, and head off to the kitchen, box of chocolate in hand. I put it away in a drawer and pick up the dishes, one in each hand and the third balanced on my left forearm. I feel my heart rate pick up in anticipation. They won’t have a clue what they’re putting in their mouths, but I know. The darkness inside me revels in this. The light cowers in deep shame. This is beyond vigilantism. Even with my grey morals, I know that this is crossing a line. It was comeuppance when I ate him, but what about now? I pacify myself with the same thought I had when I invited Doctors Bloom and Lecter to dinner. Hobbs was feeding the girls to others, feeding Hobbs to others still counts as comeuppance. Why get gun shy now?

Approaching the table, I find the wine glasses filled and Alana and Doctor Lecter are seated across from each other. It’s a square table, so technically there is no head, but with them seated across from each other and me seated across from no one, it creates a similar power dynamic. How polite of them. I walk around the table, putting the plates down in their spots and settle in. There are murmured thanks and I take my seat.

“This looks delicious,” says Alana, picking up her fork and knife. The room falls away and all of my attention is focused solely on Alana, preparing to eat. Outwardly, I have a mask of calm indifference in place. I watch her cut a piece of meat and place it in her mouth as if the whole scene is in slow motion. A rite of passage into a brave new world where karma rules and the universe demands sacrifices to maintain its balance.

“I didn’t know you could cook, Will!” she exclaims with a blend of enthusiasm and incredulity. “This is really good.”

“Thank you,” I reply with a giddy smile that I attempt to wrangle into something more self-possessed. 

I look at Doctor Lecter who is putting down his wine glass. He picks up his fork and knife. Again, as if in slow motion, I watch the metacarpal bones of his hand shift under his skin as he uses his knife to slice through the meat. He raises the fork to his lips and I watch as his mouth closes around the meat. I watch his jaw work as he masticates for a moment. I watch as his dark eyes widen minutely in what looks like well-hidden, but intense shock. For a second, his hand is frozen halfway back to his plate and his face is carved from marble. He blinks and then turns to me with an unreadable expression. He relaxes his body from it’s nearly imperceptibly tensed position. “This is very good. Though I must say, the flavor was unexpected. Who is your butcher?”

“I don’t usually employ a butcher, but recently I was in Minnesota. There was a butcher there I was made aware of and I selected my pig personally. I couldn’t resist.” Doctor Lecter smiles, genuinely smiles, like I’ve just made his day. Curious.

“Unfortunate for the pig,” he remarks. There is a twinkle in his eye.

“But fortunate for us,” I reply. 

“Any reason in particular you chose the pig you did?” asks Alana. She sips at her wine.

I chew, thinking about how to answer that for a moment. “He was causing a problem with some of the young females. I thought it best for everyone.”

“I prefer to select my own pigs. Though I’m never so altruistic,” comments Doctor Lecter, smiling again. I had him pegged as serious and stoic. Since he took that first bite he’s been bouncing in his seat. Well, not really. Doctor Lecter is much too composed for that. 

Frankly though, this whole conversation is beginning to feel off. Like I’m not the only one whose words have a hidden meaning. But that couldn’t be. Paranoia begins to wriggle itself into the convolutions of my brain like a parasite, pushing in deeper and deeper for every second it remains. I try to ignore it. I can’t. It scratches and picks. I resolve to work it out later. For now I need to have a smooth and pleasant dinner that I can use to build a friendly rapport with the good ( _ or not,  _ whispers the parasite helpfully) doctor.

Everyone eats and drinks in silence for several minutes. I break the silence, saying “So, why not just recommend Doctor Lecter to Jack?” That’s been bugging me since this morning. “For the psych eval,” I clarify.

“I’m afraid he won’t listen. He’ll find someone who will tell him what he wants to hear. Jack wants someone who will tell him you’re fit for field work even if you aren’t. Besides, I have a feeling that even if he used Hannibal, Jack would just ignore any warnings or concerns brought to him,” replies Alana with candor. I’ve always admired the way she strives for honesty and transparency. I wish I could return the favor.

“You don’t have a very high opinion of Jack,” I say. I take a small bite of my food. The cranberry vinaigrette was a good choice.

“I think Jack has different priorities than I do.” Alana pauses, presumably looking for the right words. “Jack wants to solve murders. He wants to catch criminals. By any means necessary. I worry that he would put his work ahead of you.”

“And you want Doctor Lecter to tell you if there’s something wrong with me. What then?”

“Then I will make sure you get whatever help you need,” Alana tells me sincerely. “This is all hypothetical, Will. It’s possible that you won’t have any trouble at all. It’s possible, too, that having conversations with Hannibal will keep you from having any trouble. I’m covering all of my bases.”

I’m annoyed for a moment. Alana is treating me like something breakable, fragile. Then, with sudden clarity, I see the bona fide concern. Alana may spend time with me now, allow herself to be alone with me, but she’s never stopped worrying. Her worry has changed since we became friends, though. It centers around my mental well-being rather than her safety. She’s no longer worried I’ll harm her. Alana is worried I’ll harm myself.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “Alright.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Yes.” Of course, I knew all along that I would. It’s part of the plan. Now, however, I’m not so annoyed about it. Because of Alana’s caring affection, I’m more willing. It’s no longer just a manipulation, but something I’m doing for a friend. That doesn’t mean I’ll be forthcoming or genuinely cooperative. I’ll still have to pick my words with care. In the end it should all be worth it.  _ I evaluated Will Graham myself. He is perfectly sane and of temperate character,  _ I hear Hannibal Lecter telling a faceless suit in a possible future. 

“That’s wonderful to hear, Mr. Graham,” says Doctor Lecter. The formality feels off to me.

“You can call me Will.”

Doctor Lecter nods once. “So long as you call me Hannibal.” I glance up quickly.  Was that flirting? Possibly. Why, though? It doesn’t matter. I nod back before my internal conflict becomes obvious.

“I would prefer if the two of you could start as soon as possible. Jack is planning on asking for your help in the next week or so, I believe,” says Alana.

“I have no appointments after 6 o’clock tomorrow evening if that’s convenient for you.” 

“Does 7:30 work?” I ask. 

“Yes.”

“7:30 tomorrow, then,” I say. Alana looks relieved. She's done her part. 

What case could be so difficult that Jack Crawford would need to bring me in to consult? I try to think through what I’ve caught on the news recently. Some run of the mill gun violence. A convenience store was robbed. A woman gave birth to a healthy baby on the subway. Doctors are saying coffee is actually good for you, unlike what they previously believed. Wait, no it's bad for you. Really, there's new evidence to support one theory or the other every other week.  _ Oh.  _ It couldn't be. But I think it is. Whoever is killing the pregnant women. Four of them so far, over the course of the last three months. The unborn babies were cut out. There’s more to it, but I don't know what. The police are trying to keep as much detail about the crime scenes out of the press as possible. All of New England is in a panic over this. Of course that's what this is. Jack Crawford would want all hands on deck. I had hoped to take on this killer privately, but the scrutiny of the press, public, and law enforcement made it impossible. Besides, I just pick up the slack. I don't steal cases away from the police or the FBI.

I want to ask Alana about the murders, but I doubt she'd find that appropriate dinner conversation. We continue on eating, occasionally making small talk. After dinner, Hannibal and Alana stay for a few minutes. It’s right around 8:45 when Hannibal announces he must be going.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Will.”

“Good night, Hannibal.”

“Good night.” I close the door behind him and turn to face Alana. She’s giving me a small, knowing smile. I lift my eyebrows inviting Alana to make me privy to her thoughts.

“So, you’ll be comfortable in your conversations with Hannibal?” There’s a teasing edge to her voice. I’m in high school. I refuse to be in high school.

“He seems to be a qualified and trustworthy psychiatrist,” I reply rather tonelessly.

“He is.” She sighs with a hint of humor. “Well, I should probably get going, too. Thanks for dinner, Will. It was fantastic.”

“Thanks,” I say as we head to the door. I open it for her. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Alana echoes and makes her way to her car.

I go back inside and make my way upstairs to get the dogs. They all mill around my legs. I pat Winston on the head and his tongue flops out the side of his mouth in an excited canine grin. Headlights illuminate the room, casting deep shadows before they’re gone again and I hear the crunch of gravel as Alana drives away.

“Hi, guys,” I whisper to them. “You've been very good. You want to go outside?” Buster starts wiggling all over and I take that to mean yes. The dogs trip all over each other trying to get down the stairs and to the door first. I open up and practically fall on my face as the dogs push past me to spill out onto the lawn. They wander around, sniffing everything in the vicinity. A mouse scurries by and the whole pack takes off after it. I have to whistle three times before they all come back to me. Buster is the last to return.

I watch the moon for a while as I let the dogs roam. I feel the silver shine under my skin, coursing through my veins. My lifeblood. I sigh deeply. I’m not exactly looking forward to being trapped in a room with a psychiatrist for an hour. I walk up the steps of my porch and call my dogs inside. In the kitchen, I give each one a treat. I begin cleaning the dishes and the dogs hang around for a bit, hoping for more treats, until they eventually grow bored and find places to lay down. 

That night, I lay in bed and think about girls who will have long, full lives because their killer was killed before he could get to them. I think about the daughter who is now free from her father’s sins. She’ll never be dragged into his hell again. I think about old Native American legends about people who indulged in cannibalism. How they were transformed into something entirely other; something no longer human. At some indefinable point, my musings morph into fragmented dreams. Dreams full of insatiable wendigos and snapping bones and hot blood dripping from a glinting scalpel in hands that I almost recognize. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this is the part where I apologize for taking forever to update. So, I'm very sorry! I'll try to get into the swing of posting regularly. Thanks for hanging around and reading regardless of my shortcomings.
> 
> As always, thoughts, predictions, and random ramblings are completely welcome!


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